


Burning

by emavee



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Iron Dad, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Vomit Mention, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 18:04:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emavee/pseuds/emavee
Summary: He was surprised at how little Peter’s handwriting had changed; it had just gotten a little smaller and less blocky—a stark reminder of the fact that Peter is still a child. Was a child. He was a child. Before he died.





	Burning

_“I don’t want to go. Please, sir. I don’t want to go.”_

_Not him, not him, nopleasenothimpleasepleaseno_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_Nonononono_

He shot up from the floor, Peter’s name on his lips. It disappeared into a choked gasp as Tony took stock of his surroundings.

 

He was in the lab, and one quick glance at his watch told him that it was 4:35 in the morning. So he’d been down here for about thirty-seven hours now.

 

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. When he slept, he saw Peter over and over, crumbling to ash in his arms. Not that being awake was much better, when he heard the kid’s sobs and pleads echoing off of the silent lab walls every minute of every day. But when he slept, he relived it and then he would wake up and think for just a split second that maybe it was some horrid nightmare, that Peter was asleep in his own bed, alive and everything good in this universe.

 

When he realized he wasn’t, that Peter was dead, grief and guilt came crashing down all over again, just as hard as the first time. 

 

But he was exhausted from bleeding and fighting and grieving and screaming at himself for not having done more and as much as he tried, he couldn’t stop sleep from catching up with him eventually.

 

He was so, so tired, but he couldn’t sleep. If he had to see it one more time, if he had to think for one more millisecond that Peter Parker was still alive, he was going to implode. Already he could feel his soul tearing itself apart, piece by piece until soon there would be nothing left of him at all.

 

But already, as he choked on sobs that didn’t reach his tired eyes, he could feel himself slipping back into unconsciousness, where the dreams and the waking up again were waiting.

 

Alcohol. He needed alcohol. If he was going to sleep, it would be infinitely better to pass out drunk and blissfully unaware. It would be better to forget.

 

He swallowed bile as a massive wave of guilt hit him.

 

No. No. He never wanted to forget Peter. He just wanted to sleep. Sleep without thinking. Sleep without reliving. Just a few moments of some sort of hazy peace so he can make it through the night without breaking apart completely.

 

He stumbled to a closet in the corner of the lab. He’d stashed some whisky there a while ago.

 

_More than two years ago. Before Peter made him want to be a better person. Before Peter made him feel whole again. Before Peter somehow managed to make the blur of alcohol unappealing because who could want to escape the world when Peter Parker was there being his amazing, heroic self? Who would want to drown out a place where Peter Parker cared about him?_

 

_But Peter was gone._

His hands were already shaking, but now his whole body followed suit, making him unsteady on his feet. He practically fell into the closet, hauling the door open and pawing at the top shelf in desperation. With a rush that left his head spinning, he was hit with a wave of nausea and fear and despondence and a thousand other things like a stab to the gut, sending him to his knees.

 

On the way, his hand hit a cardboard box and brought it crashing down with him. As they both hit the floor, the box exploded open, spilling sheets and sheets of paper onto the linoleum floor.

 

He sat against the doorframe, breathing heavy and coughing up desperate sobs. Even though his vision was slightly blurry, he knew what the papers were. Pepper or Rhodey or Happy or maybe even Bruce—someone who'd cared about him—had put the box in front of his alcohol stash in order to deter him.

 

They were just some of the drawings and letters he’d received from kids over the years, the ones Rhodey had been impressed with and Pepper had cooed over and Happy had cocked a smile at. The ones that filled Tony’s chest with a happy warmth and tugged his cheeks painfully up into a smile. They’d been deemed the best of the best and his friends had figured they would give him something to be proud of and clean for when he felt himself slipping.

 

Now all he saw were failures. How many of them had looked up at the sky and figured that as long as Iron Man was out there, they’d be safe?

 

How many of these kids were ash now? Or lost their families and friends? Or got caught in the cacophony of accidents that followed the disappearance of half the population? It was completely unrealistic to think that there was a single one of these kids who hadn’t been ruined by Tony’s failure.

 

Colorful papers had spilled across Tony’s legs and pooled all around him. He tried to push himself back to his feet so he could reach the whisky, but his hand slipped on a drawing and he fell backwards hard and hit his head on the wall. Paper crinkled against his fingers as he clenched in a fist. With a shove, he sent a pile of them away from him before they twisted into the air and floated gently back to the floor.

 

Finally, he was able to push himself up almost to a standing position, but something he saw made him fall back down hard on his knees. He scrambled forward towards one of the papers and pulled it up towards his face. His grip was so tight that his thumb tore a hole in the paper and he instantly felt guilty for destroying it, but his hands seemed to be seizing without his control.

 

There, on the back, in red crayon, his handwriting surprisingly neat for an eight-year-old:

_Love, Peter B. Parker :)_

Peter had written this, eight years ago. He couldn’t breathe fast enough. He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t think.

 

He turned the paper over suddenly it felt like someone had dropped a car on his chest.

 

It was a drawing and a short note, each part taking up half of the page. The drawing was a little messy, a little hard to decipher, but even his stricken mind could make out the Iron Man suit and blue repulsors and a small human with a poorly-drawn outstretched hand.

 

It hurt to look at closely, so he didn’t. He forced his eyes onto the writing and didn’t read it, just studied the lines of alternating red and gold crayon and exuberant use of explanation points.

 

He was surprised at how little Peter’s handwriting had changed; it had just gotten a little smaller and less blocky—a stark reminder of the fact that Peter is still a child. Was a child. He was a child. Before he died.

 

He couldn’t read it. He couldn’t do it. It hurt too much.

 

But it was _Peter_ and he would do anything, _anything_ in this godforsaken universe just to see Peter again, to have one last thing to hold on to. And now it was staring him straight in the face and he couldn’t ignore it. He wouldn’t do that to Peter.

 

He would do anything for Peter, even if the thought of reading this note sounded more painful than having someone rummage around in a hole in his chest. His heart was being torn apart all over again and this hurt even worse than the catastrophic shrapnel from his own bomb.

 

It was always his own failure that threatened to ruin him.

 

_Dear Mr. Stark,_

_My name is Peter Parker and when I am bigger I want to be a hero just like you!! Iron Man is the coollest thing ever but your also so smart, nice, and incredable! When I saw you at the expo it was the best! You are the best person ever!_

_Thank you for saving me! You will always be my hero!!!_

_:)_

He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve Peter’s praise. He never did and he certainly didn’t now.

 

_You will always be my hero._

 

He tipped to the side and emptied the contents of his stomach, coughing and sobbing and holding Peter’s letter up and out of the way so he couldn’t mess it up anymore.

 

_Thank you for saving me!_

 

Wait, what did he mean? Saving him?

 

He held the paper just a few inches from his nose, taking in every line and curve and scribble of Peter’s drawing. His Iron Man was shooting at something that looked more like an angular grey blob than an actual villain, but the speech bubble next to him sent Tony’s head reeling.

 

_“Nice work, kid!”_

 

No. No. Nonononono. That had been Peter? Peter was that stupidly brave kid from the Expo? Peter had almost died on Tony’s watch years before he even knew him?

 

Tony turned to the side again as bile rose in his throat.

 

That Hammer Drone had almost turned Peter to ash eight years ago. Maybe all Tony had done was delay the inevitable.

 

Ash, ash, ash.

That’s all Tony would ever know now.

Ash and death and violence and fear and horrible, horrible burning pain.

 

He clutched the paper to his chest. Maybe if he wanted it hard enough, he could at least pretend it was Peter.

 

But the burning would never cease.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry <3
> 
> Feel free to yell at me in the comments


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